


You're Nobody 'Till Somebody Loves You

by bloodsugar



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Cluelessness, Denial, Homophobia, Love Triangle, M/M, Pining, RPF, Seduction, Slow Burn, UST, Unrequited Love, side Gerard Piqué/Shakira
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2151861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsugar/pseuds/bloodsugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years after the scandal about him and Zlatan Ibrahimovic, Gerard Piqué is asked about it yet again in an interview. It's nowhere near the first time this topic has been visited and yet in the most important of ways it is the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We've Still Got So Much To Learn

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic ( and its chapters) is borrowed from James Arthur's song with the same name. 
> 
> If you're not familiar with this ship, a quick google search of both their names will be more than enough to clue you in. Beyond that though, I have included links (the first letter of every sentence in italics at the beginning hosts a relevant link) which I think you should all follow so that you can feel the intensity of this ship that I feel.. Ahem. I don't know what happened, the whole ordeal between Ibra and Gerard unlocked something and I feel like there is a story to be told here. And if they won't tell it, I will. This story will deal with problematic themes of homophobia, cheating, love triangles, marriage issues and divorce, unrequited love, broken hearts etc. But in its core it is a love story, so love is what I hope we all get out of it. 
> 
> I must say that I am absolutely not one for angst. I can't stand to write about pain and drama. Something about this pairing however really struck me. So this story will have a sufficient amount of angst, and it also feels quite lengthy too, if my muse cooperates. Being who I am, I may be discouraged by lack of feedback so please do comment if you're interested in reading more. Also due to who I am a happy ending is almost certain if we do reach that part. Finally, and this is possibly a very important warning - I am not a fan of either of these men nor their teams and as such, I will get a lot of things wrong despite the research I do. Feel free to correct any major mistakes I make about their careers or personal lives, but please don't get too hung up on them. This is in the end a work of fiction and I will take creative liberties with it. I really hope you enjoy it. Here we go!

 

 

 

_[W](http://www.whoateallthepies.tv/barcelona/26222/whats-the-deal-with-zlatan-ibrahimovic-and-gerard-pique.html)hat's The Deal With Zlatan Ibrahimovic and Gerard Piqué? _

 

_[W](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFv6kh_rPPA)e have come to the Barca's training ground to ask Ibra and Piqué about the famous photo [...] Ibra, what do you think of this photo?_

_[W](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=of9toUNUyqw)e have it right here, the photo. [_ _...]_ _What happened there?_

 

_[Z](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otQptJYkknQ)latan would be very sad._

 

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t necessarily come as a surprise, as something that’s been brought up on and off over the years, with a certain consistency. And still somehow Gerard’s insides react to it, to the mere mention of it by the interviewer across from him. It’s for show, for the fans in the audience to chuckle and snort over; for the journalists amongst them to get a short column out of; and of course for the interviewer himself to scratch off of his list as top topics to cover with Gerard over the course of their interview.

  
Gerard takes it in stride, he always, always does. It’s something so small blown so much out of proportion that going along with it and laughing about it is the best way to show the media that they are ridiculous. He’s gotten a taste for it too, in the past four years; he finds a certain type of satisfaction in knocking down the assumptions with a smile on his face and the relaxed posture in his body. The interviewers, he knows well now, will look at him expectantly, their attention sharp for any nerves rolling off of him at the mere mention of that photo, of that moment – and Gerard would give them nothing.

 

He has even been playful in his experimentation about which response would be taken the right way. Not the right way in a moral sense; not even the right way in the sense that his manager and his PR agent would approve of, but the way that would bring smiles to people’s faces and laughter spilling from their mouths. He has tried variations of ‘I’m not gay, but can you blame me for thinking Zlatan is sexy’ and in beautiful, open minded Spain the reaction to those remarks of his provided him with long months of not being bothered about it. Then the topic would re-surface again, much to his and Shakira’s amusement, and Gerard would publicly flirt with the notion of yes, indeed the media has it right, he and Zlatan were as gay as the day is long. He is a pro at it by now.

 

There has always been that one interviewer that needed to prod and if Gerard had to be honest, he was pretty okay with it too. A little scandal is always good because it keeps you on the news and you stay relevant not just as an athlete but as a public figure, his previous manager had told him, and being a Latina superstar’s boyfriend Gerard had to agree from experience. So when someone asked him at a panel if his relationship is getting serious, he’d said ‘I can’t tell you or Zlatan would be very sad.’, and the laughter resonating through the room had put an end to it for a while. Personally, Gerard could do that all day, because he never could relate to some men’s sexuality hang ups. There was nothing wrong with being gay, so why would he scream in terror at anybody’s insinuations that he might be. Better yet, even if he was gay he is pretty damn certain that a couple of hungry-for-scandals journalists and a bunch of curious fans would not have managed to drag him out of the closet kicking and screaming about his vagina-worshipping heterosexuality. That’s not who Gerard is, and he never has been – an insecure, homophobic person that is.

 

Zlatan had been much less zen about it all, but then again that could be contributed as just another part of the Swede’s impulsive personality. The striker had a reputation, and perhaps a certain part of it had been rightfully earned. He was spontaneous and he had a fuse shorter than some, on which other players and football commentators alike greedily fed at times. Gerard never thought much of it himself, seeing as he and Zlatan always got along well. On the pitch, during practice or at matches, they’d developed a type of sync, in tune with each other’s style of play and letting the chemistry bounce off of both of them had been easy. Loved and hated by fans and casual football watchers alike, Zlatan had left his mark on Spanish football, swept Europe by storm and Gerard had had the pleasure to be on the same team with him. Life was good. One photo of them in the parking lot of Barcelona sports city wasn’t going to change much of that.

 

“Come to my house and you’ll find out if I’m gay.” Zlatan had said to an amused pushy interviewer and if Gerard had to be very honest, he’d laughed when he first saw the clip. And the couple of times after that too, when he’d replayed it. There was some aggression in Zlatan’s words, and who would blame him, given that he was ambushed with a photo of a moment he did not want showcased to the world like one of his wonder goals. Gerard could understand his frustration, even if he didn’t share it himself. His sympathy was born out of respect for his fellow player whose privacy had been invaded, and by affection for a friend who didn’t want to be bothered by the press about something personal. And even if Zlatan had been and was rude to any and every interviewer pushing to get a rise out of him, Gerard couldn’t be bothered by it. Zlatan, for all his real or imagined by people shortcomings, had always treated him with light hearted affection. They’d settled into an easy companionship during Zlatan’s time in Barcelona and whatever negative image the striker had at one point or another, Gerard saw none of first hand. So when Zlatan told interviewers off, Gerard felt no need whatsoever to reprimand him – not that it wasn’t his place, he was a part of this too after all, but because they both had the right to deal with the media’s obnoxious side in whichever way they saw fit.

 

Eventually interviewers got the picture and stopped nagging the Swede about ‘he and Gerard’, probably assuming that there was no Zlatan and Gerard to begin with. Zlatan was probably relieved, they didn’t really talk about it at all, and by extension Gerard was relieved himself. Not that he cared much about what the media did or did not assume in the end, but they would have been right for a change – there was nothing between them either way. A moment of comfort shared between friends was hardly something unusual in the world, even if they were both public figures. Less attention could stand to be spared to the issue of simple friends being there for each other, so whether it was something in particular that clued the media in to drop it, or they’d just gotten bored of the whole ordeal, Gerard was glad Zlatan was no longer the focus of the ‘gay-or-not’ discussion. Of course that was on the Swede’s side.

 

As the more easy-going half of the pair, Gerard was more continuously approached on the topic in sporadic intervals that almost brought a sense of entertainment into his life. At first it would be every couple of months, then about twice a year – this way over the course of four not quite uneventful years. He and Shakira got as serious as it could be; had a beautiful son together that would hopefully sing and dance and play football one day; and his career at Barcelona seemed to be almost unquestionably steady, almost eternal. He could deal with an old scandal resurfacing every now and again when Spanish football got too boring by media standards. That is how things were for a footballer in the public eye – one week it was Iker Casillas’ questionable future as Real Madrid’s captain and goal keeper; the next it was about Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi’s horrific rivalry; then it was about Diego Costa’s outburst on the pitch; and then things would circle back to whether or not Gerard Piqué and Zlatan Ibrahimovic were gay together that one time in a parking lot a few years ago.

 

Gerard, as a footballer and as a person, is well acquainted with the reality of football. Beyond that, he is very well adjusted, too – that’s what his agent always tells him. He isn’t sure if it’s because he simply cares less; if it’s because he is secure in himself and where he stands; or if it’s just because a media scandal, be it a gay one or not, just isn’t that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. He likes this about himself, and people love it about him too in the end of the day.

 

So that’s why, when four years after the initial boom of media attention on the moment he and Zlatan shared, the photo is brought up again – quite literally brought up on a giant screen on stage – Gerard dives into it with ease. “In football,” he tells the interviewer, hands gesturing toward the photo to emphasize his point, “It’s normal, it’s logical to show emotion by touching somebody.” There are hums of understanding coming from the audience. They know this topic has been bled dry, and at this point, whatever Gerard says about it is more or less accepted at face value.

 

“What was happening in that moment?” Whether the interviewer is inquiring about their body language, or what he and Zlatan were talking about is more or less lost on Gerard. He casts a look at the photo, takes a lingering moment to think about it. Their fingers almost entwined, bodies brushing together closely – it looks intimate, Gerard will give it that.

 

“I don’t remember, to be honest.” He says, and it’s not entirely a lie. He is fuzzy on the details of that moment. He’d been comforting Zlatan, helping out a friend. Before it was blown out of proportion he probably had a clearer picture in his head about what it was that was bothering the Swede that day, but over the years the experience was twisted and morphed into something else.

 

Gerard feels an unpleasant pang in his chest. In a fleeting moment, he is mad at the press for turning a genuine moment between team mates and friends into a spectacle to be seen and discussed endlessly. Before he can get hung up on that feeling of righteousness, Gerard lets it go the best way he knows how – by embracing it. “Listen, if Zlatan and I have unfinished business from the pitch, we take it up in the parking lot.” He grins, chuckling through it. Laughter breaks out among the audience and an easy smile makes its way to the interviewer’s face before the topic is changed.

 

The photo stays up on the screen for a while longer, so Gerard has a chance to peek at it a couple of times. It’s been a long time since he saw it, and somehow it makes him wistful about the past. Certainly not about all the times he and Zlatan were asked to comment on the photo or about all the times they were asked if they were gay. Gerard feels nostalgic about the friendship he and the Swedish striker shared and he wishes it hadn’t fallen more or less through the cracks with Zlatan’s departure from Barcelona.

 

These days they see each other mainly on the pitch, and rarely too whenever Barcelona plays against Paris Saint-Germain. Living in different countries obviously has a lot to do with it, but Gerard wonders if it’s really that impossible for two players to be in different teams but keep in touch properly. That night it occurs to him that if he wanted to contact Zlatan, he should have done it a million times by now. He has Zlatan’s number, of course. The Swede likes to send out standard bulk-texts to all of his contacts, and Gerard is always on the receiving end of the more important ones.

 

_This is Zlatan. Zlatan has a new number. If you text old one, Zlatan won’t reply, ok?_

 

_32 today. Say Happy Birthday to Zlatan!_

 

_Changing my number again, dumb reporters got other one and won’t stop calling. Oh, it’s Zlatan btw._

 

Whatever flaws people saw in Zlatan’s character, Gerard always found the older man to be a lot of fun. Zlatan was quirky, sure, but that big personality was a part of his charm and it was the reason why he and Gerard got on so well from the very beginning. It crosses Gerard’s mind that it is a good time as any to congratulate Zlatan on an undoubtedly great season, but he hasn’t really followed the Swede’s more recent matches, so he might make a fool of himself with it.

 

‘Guess what I got asked today at an interview.’ He goes to type in a text to Zlatan NewNmbr5, then changes his mind quickly and deletes it. They haven’t spoken in months and opening a can of worms is not the way to go. ‘How are you?’ seems too casual somehow after a period of silence and Gerard guesses Zlatan might not even bother to reply to it. He frowns some to himself, then settles for _‘I miss hanging out. Are you visiting Barcelona anytime soon?’_ and sends it before he can change his mind.

 

When there is no reply by the following morning, Gerard wonders if maybe Zlatan changed his number again and forgot to include him in the bulk message. By the end of the following week, he thinks, no – the number is right, Zlatan is just busy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. If I Can Give It, I'll Take It

 

 

 

 

 

 

February comes swiftly, perhaps due to Gerard’s busy schedule or just the lack of a couple extra days. He trains with the team in between matches; shares a couple of beers with Leo to discuss any upcoming transfers that neither of them is really interested in; Skypes with Shaki every night; and takes  sole responsibility to hire a new babysitter for Milan. The baby is old enough now to actually help with that choice, so they end up spending Gerard’s days off doing the interviews together. Milan may not ask insightful questions about the sitters’ experience and ambitions but he looks at each one with intelligence and mischief in his eyes and Gerard feels a vague sense of pride. He is one lucky daddy and his son is going to be quite a handful for the young Polish girl they eventually settle on. Marina, that is her name, is fresh out of colleague, her Spanish is perfect and her English nearly just as much, and if Gerard has to be honest he is somewhat jealous of that. He doesn’t know how young people manage to learn so many languages these days, maybe they’re just smarter than his generation and the world is actually moving forward. That always seemed to be his mother’s theory, who had made a bit of a habit out of telling him every few months that he had surpassed her achievements for his age and he was so much more accomplished than she had been at 27. If she’s right, he reckons by the time he is 50 there will be a whole bunch of young Einsteins running around doing big things in the world.

 

Valentine’s Day arrives and it’s a warm, sunny day, more or less typical for a Spanish winter. Shakira has been in the US for the filming of The Voice’s upcoming season so it has been a good month or so since he has had more than a weekend to spend with her. Given both their careers, they’ve always had a sufficient amount of space in their relationship, and neither has minded for the most part. Still there is a distinction between him going off to practice for half a day and her flying to another continent for weeks on an end. But as adults they both make it work, in fact they make it work better than most other couples he has known over the years. He was 23 when they met and he’d been hesitant about it at first but eventually it made perfect sense. They were equals in every way that mattered – respect was the backbone of their relationship and with the amount of understanding existing so naturally between them any decisions they’d made about their status had barely been a compromise. In retrospect, Gerard thinks they had it pretty easy, given that the biggest dirt the media had on them was that Shaki was a decade older than him. He always thought the uproar about the age difference was nothing more than another irrational hang up people had about other people’s private business. But in some way this is what they both signed on for when they followed their career paths, so he never took to whining about it. What mattered was that they rarely fought, if ever, and he could barely pinpoint any serious issues between them if he tried. The last four years of his life have been a blur of love and success and he’s undoubtedly been luckier than most.

 

Gerard is playing with Milan on the floor of their spacious living room when Shakira calls him on her way from the airport. She took the flight back late last night and with the distance between here and Los Angeles it means she is arriving just on time for them to relax some together, catch up on details of what the other has been doing and then have dinner at their favorite restaurant in the evening if they feel up for it. Time has been kind to them, and they’ve found a good balance of being lazy at home or going out as they saw fit. Gerard figures it is a good sign that they don’t spend much time worrying about whether or not they’re becoming a boring couple, if they live in love and serenity what does it even matter if it eventually gets low key. Half of the world is lusting after his partner and there are probably people out there who would kill for a boring night with Shakira.

 

Gerard hopes she doesn’t have jet lag, and he tells her that while they’re on the phone because if he doesn’t bring it up himself, she’d never say it. He likes that she doesn’t focus on “small things” as she refers to such types of body discomfort. He admires that a lot about her because personally, he turns into a grouchy boy whenever he is even remotely sick, and he does consider jet lag to be a type of sickness.

 

“I actually slept on the plane.” Shaki says and Gerard can hear the smile in her voice. She likes it when he worries about her, and whenever he overdoes it she is sure to tell him off with a grin and kiss. And in turn he likes her method so sometimes he ends up fussing over her just for the hell of it. They’ve had some pretty sweet times together prone by this tendency of his.

 

Milan drives an oversized police car toy into the couch and giggles loudly, snapping his daddy out of his wandering thoughts. Gerard leans down to kiss the baby’s head and reaches for a small football, rolling it towards his son. “Still,” he murmurs into the phone, his gaze following Milan as the baby abandons the other toys and kicks the ball across the room with almost surprisingly strength. “I wish you would have at least let me pick you up from the airport.” Gerard says over Milan’s enthusiastic clapping. He doesn’t know who’s happier that his son is showing promising athleticism from the fragile age of 1 – he or the baby himself.

 

Shaki snorts on the other end of the line and Gerard can practically see her shake her head. “I don’t even have any large suitcases.” She points out as though that means Gerard has no reason to pick her up unless she’s lugging ten pieces of luggage. It’s his turn to snort and he opens his mouth for a witty comeback when she beats him to the punch.  “That and the cab driver is really happy she got to meet me and get an autograph for her son and you know I love to meet fans, hon.” She likes to use nicknames when she wants to shut him up with affection and he has to admit it usually works since it makes him melt and forget his train of thought. Maybe it’s because she uses them somewhat rarely, or maybe Gerard is just a sucker for pet names.

 

He lets out an exaggerated sigh into the receiver, but he’s smiling and he’s sure she knows it too. “How long until you get here?” he ends up asking, already impatient. It has been too long since they spent a sufficient amount of time together, even if by his standards sufficient means a week of non stop eating, sleeping and just generally being with each other. She tells him a vague estimate, sounding distracted, and then her tone drops a notch or two with her next words. “I missed you, too.” It sends a shiver down Gerard’s spine and he is so into the moment he fails to duck when Milan throws the soccer ball at his head, then squeals like it is the most amusing thing in the world that his daddy got smacked in the head by his own son.

 

 “Now that’s not how you play football…” Gerard chuckles, reaching out to pinch the baby and sending him into a fit of mischievous giggles.

 

Shaki laughs on the other end of the line, having picked on their father-son bonding since Gerard texted her a photo of them playing before she called him from the car. She says she can’t wait to see her baby boy and then coos over the phone, put on speaker for Milan to hear his mommy’s voice. Gerard can’t stop smiling as he watches his son clap enthusiastically when Shaki tells him mommy is on the way home and they’ll spend a long weekend together, the three of them.

 

They end up staying on the phone until the very moment her cab arrives in front of the voice and Gerard carries his son out for them to greet her together. They hug long and hard and he kisses her forehead, her cheek and finally her lips as their son tries to get their attention from where he is cradled between their chests. Gerard apologizes to the cab driver for the delay as he pays her, but the woman shakes her head and smiles, saying it is absolutely no problem and that it’s practically a privilege to see Shakira and her beautiful family. He thanks her and carries Shaki’s small suitcase into the house, trailing close behind her as she holds the baby in her arms and tells him about the gift Adam Levine sent him. Milan’s eyes grow large, quiet in his excitement, and Gerard wants to ask what it is on his behalf. He’s curious too.

 

The gift ends up being a microphone toy, and they all laugh about it, because they can see the baby’s childhood turning into a beautiful lengthy battle of footballer vs singer, or who knows, maybe Milan will grow up to be both and he’d make world history in his own way. Shaki ponders out loud if their son will sing about football, and if his songs will be the official songs for the FIFA World Cups like hers are now. Gerard thinks it sounds good enough.

 

“He’ll sing them at opening ceremonies, then change during the national anthems and then get back on the pitch just in time for the match.” He muses, and Shaki smiles at him, a glint in her eye. His brows furrow, wondering if there’s something he’s missing when she speaks up, her hand a steady caress over Milan’s side where the baby sits in her lap, clutching the microphone from Levine.

 

“Which team do you reckon he will play in?” she asks, and Gerard gets it. This topic has come up before and he always dodges the question like it’s a potential black hole. Her approach to the topic seems so light hearted, and he really wants their son to play on the Spanish National Team, and that contrast makes him feel iffy about delving into the topic. Being a part of the national team has been a point of pride of his for a long time now, he has won numerous cups with that team, and he has seen and experienced their greatness for himself. They’ve made history together and what would be better than his son continuing that legacy and contributing to Spanish football history? If Shaki says Colombia NT instead, Gerard would probably have a tiny seizure because he can’t say no to her even about things that mean the world to him. But in the end of the day it is neither of their decisions anyway, Milan’s future is entirely in his own hands and when the boy is old enough to pick a path for himself, Gerard will be accepting and accommodating because his son deserves the freedom to choose and live as he best saw fit. So that’s what he settles on, and this is probably the most honest he has ever been on the topic, in the few cases that they’ve talked about it. Shaki smiles at him warmly, and it reaches her eyes in the best of ways as she leans in to kiss him. It occurs to Gerard that he has probably been too serious about it.

 

They play with Milan and his toys – the baby abandons the microphone in favor of the football and Gerard puffs out his chest, grinning when Shaki lets out an exaggerated sigh, and then joins their son in a short session of football. She is Gerard’s biggest fan after all, and as per her own words, she will be Milan’s biggest fan too when he becomes the best midfielder in the world. ‘What do you mean midfielder’, Gerard had said when she first settled on that playing position and she’d wiggled her eyebrows and smirked deviously at him. He’d ended up kissing that expression off of her face, and eventually Milan being a midfielder had actually sounded rather appealing. The three of them nap together in the afternoon in the master bedroom, the baby snoozing between them, never quite falling asleep, the excitement of having mommy home keeping him up. Gerard feels the same way so similarly he ends up drifting in and out of sleep the entire time, opening his eyes every now and then to cast a look over Shaki and their son.

 

He is closing his eyes to give sleep another go when his phone buzzes on the bedside table, put on vibrate long hours ago when Shakira’s cab had driven off. He checks to see that the noise hasn’t brought anybody out of their sleep and then reaches for his phone, curiosity getting the best of him. In the past he has always been that person who answers messages and calls immediately, but lately he has gotten into a habit of putting his phone away and checking it a couple of times a day in case his manager called for whatever reason. He sees his team mates on the pitch on the regular anyway, so his phone hasn’t seen much action lately.

 

He’s not sure what he expects to see when he unlocks the screen, but the message that pops up makes his heart skip a beat. Well, well, Gerard will be damned. After two weeks of nothing, just when he has practically forgotten about reaching out to Ibra, Zlatan has finally messaged him back. And again, whatever expectations Gerard may have subconsciously had are not met at all.

 

 ** _I can’t believe you said that._** Is all the text says and Gerard scowls. He looks at the message he sent all those days ago and it’s such a standard friendly text, it confuses him that Zlatan would deem it stupid. He briefly searches his mind for anything risky or stupid he may have said to the Swede previously but nothing comes to mind.

 

 ** _I’m sorry? I have no clue what you mean._** He texts back, trying not to get on the defensive now that Zlatan has finally responded. He does miss his ex team mate. They used to be friends and with how little they’ve kept in touch over the past couple of years it really feels like a loss of something special. The next text doesn’t come for a few minutes, and Gerard is just starting to get fidgety when his phone finally buzzes again. Milan stirs next to him, and Gerard berates himself on the inside for not switching off his phone entirely, but he’s never been one to start a conversation and not finish it. He switches the profile mode to Silent and tries not to move much on the bed, propping himself quietly on a couple of pillows as he opens the text.

 

**_The interview. Ibra and Piqué in the parking lot._ **

 

Gerard winces at this one, imagining a stern look on Zlatan’s face, like the ones he gave reporters whenever they brought it up. It’s not guilt that Gerard is feeling, really, why would he feel guilty for responding to an interviewer’s question. He was asked, he answered, and actually as far as he remembers he answered pretty damn well because it cut the topic short, didn’t it. He ponders on what to reply with for a few seconds, then shrugs almost to himself and types. **_My reply was pretty great, I thought._** He feels brave, and it’s not that he is ready to fight Zlatan on this, but if the older man has a problem with Gerard’s response, he’s probably over reacting. Then it hits him that the Swede shouldn’t even know about this interview, it’s not like it was on TV or anything, it was basically a panel of two – him and the interviewer. And that giant screen where his and Ibra’s photo had been plastered on for everyone in the audience to snicker and ‘aw’ over. **_How do you even know about it?_** He asks, not waiting for his previous text to be answered, then spaces out as he goes over the interview again in his head. His eyes are trained on the wall opposite from him and he wonders idly if it’s time to re-paint the walls. Maybe in something more adventurous than classic white. He is considering eggshell or magnolia when he remembers he’s in the middle of a conversation that can go downhill any second.

 ** _New PR girl tell me about “Ibra and Piqué” all the time when something happens._** The text is somewhat ambiguous for Gerard. Does Zlatan ask for the information or does this new PR rep of his just dump the information on him, testing his boundaries and asking to be fired before she has even had a chance to strengthen his reputation? He receives two more texts, after one another, which more or less give him a better picture. **_She thinks the reporters won’t stop. Says they will never drop it._** This one makes Gerard feel uncomfortable because it betrays how strongly Zlatan is still affected by the scandal, and how final the whole thing seems to him. He imagines the striker feels like this problem will haunt them forever.

 

 ** _I think she believes it true._** Is the third text and Gerard cringes. It is one thing to have some random interviewers and fans thinking that there was some truth to that scandal, and it is a completely different thing to have someone on your team share the same view. He feels sympathetic, but what can he do, call Ibra’s new unnamed PR girl and explain to her in detail that he and Zlatan were nothing more than friends and that the moment in that parking lot was friendship distorted into something else? He thinks that even if he did explain himself, he’d come off as someone trying to cover something up; or maybe the girl would say that just because they weren’t more than friends then didn’t mean they weren’t headed in that direction. He has read that theory before in a couple of columns, and it is absurd. He can’t win with these people. But shame on this girl, she is supposed to be on Zlatan’s side.

 

 ** _Tell her it isn’t true._** Gerard types, trying to be helpful and knowing he is failing big time. Shaki and Milan are still sleeping soundly next to him, and he manages a fond little smile. **_Nothing happened._** He adds, like Zlatan doesn’t know first hand. Really, if he doesn’t step up his game, their friendship has close to zero chance of coming back to life.

 

 ** _That’s a lie._** Ibra’s text shocks him a little. What, Gerard thinks to himself, what’s a lie. He sends back a ‘ ** _?_** ’ swiftly, waiting a bit more curiously for Zlatan’s next text.

 

 ** _It was not nothing._** Is Zlatan’s text and Gerard narrows his eyes at his phone. Is the older man referring to the whole scandal or the particular moment in the parking lot? Because if it’s the latter, Gerard really needs some help remembering the details. He starts typing ‘How do you mean?’ but more texts start coming and he thinks that he may have unconsciously unlocked something. He tries to read them all on time but they come so fast so has to scroll back up in the text window to read them all.

 

**_You and me had a moment and stupid media came in and fuck it up._ **

**_Friends or gay lovers, Ibra, tell us,_ **

**_are you mad about this, Ibra._ **

**_They won’t let go._ **

**_Every week same thing. Do you love Piqué?_ **

**_What do you think about this photo?_ **

**_Ibra, are you gay?_ **

**_So much like this, way too much._ **

**_I’m sick of it._ **

**_And then you go joke about it._ **

**_They don’t think it funny._ **

**_They want to make fools of you, of me, of us._ **

****

By the time he reads the last text Gerard is honest to God feeling like if it was in his power, he would make all of this disappear. He hasn’t kept in touch with Ibra, that’s true enough, but even these handful of messages are enough to rekindle in him a protectiveness he never really knew how to keep at bay. Neither of them should have been pushed by the media like this, and Zlatan in particular – as the more bothered by it by the two, should not have been tested like this. For the first time in four years Gerard realizes that every time he was asked about this scandal, Zlatan was asked too. Not directly, but through him, through Gerard. They were both a part of this and for every time Gerard partook in a bit of harmless fun with the issue, the Swede was unwillingly being dragged into it too. Only Gerard didn’t know about it, and his ignorance didn’t help much even if it didn’t make him consciously responsible for it. He used to think he wasn’t responsible at all - all he did was try and survive the situation with a bit of humor and dignity, but perhaps he’d been too playful with it; taken it too much in stride. Maybe that is the reason the media never let go completely.

 

 ** _I’m sorry._** Is the best he can do, and he really means it. It’s not like he won’t sleep tonight, but there is guilt coiling in his gut and he doesn’t like it. He hopes Zlatan believes him.

 

The following minutes trail by slowly, and Gerard is starting to think the striker won’t answer him when the next text arrives. **_Not your fault, Geri. Don’t apologize. The nerve, talking about this again after 4 years. What do they want from us. I could kill them._**

 

Gerard doesn’t know how to respond. The guilt is slowly being replaced by a wave of apprehension – not toward Zlatan, no, he is on the Swede’s side. Apprehension toward every reporter who has ever helped blow this thing out of proportion. He didn’t use to blame them – the reporters; they were just doing their jobs. But now he thinks, maybe that is not what their jobs were supposed to be about. Maybe insinuating things and creating rumors was not an actual part of their job descriptions. And beyond them, so irrelevant in this moment compared to Zlatan’s barely constrained anger, lay a friendship that Gerard wanted to salvage. He wouldn’t let them ruin it again, not after four years in which he was older and wiser and happier.

 

**_I would help you kill them, but let’s forget them instead? Move on with our lives. You could come to Barcelona or I will come to Paris? We haven’t hung out in too long._ **

 

Gerard sends the text without much thought. He feels eager to bury this scandal, and he is going to do it by very pointedly and very deliberately once again becoming close friends with Zlatan. He always did think that the best way to shut rumors down was by just living his life and having the relationships he wants and needs; not caring about how they seemed to the outside world. He had football, he had a family, and for an extended period of time he’d had a friendship with a man misunderstood in many ways. No wonder their friendship had been misunderstood too. But it doesn’t matter now, he has reached out and he’s certain Ibra will reach back. It is exactly that certainty of his that contributes to Gerard feeling confused and perhaps a little put off too, when Zlatan doesn’t reply to his text. There is nothing for the longest time – not a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, not even a ‘maybe’; no reasoning or excuses; just nothing. It is Gerard’s turn to not understand.

 

He thinks perhaps he took it too far, insisting they hang out right after Zlatan had ranted to him about his PR rep thinking “Ibra and Piqué” was real, and that they indeed had a thing going on all those years ago. His timing definitely lacked, that was for sure. He may as well have typed ‘Oh your PR girl thinks we’re gay? Let’s show her by meeting in secret. Maybe at a romantic inn in Vermont, shall we?’ Gerard thinks vaguely that forget Spanish media, US media would have a field day with that one. He could see the headlines now so vividly it was like he had a magazine in his hands.

 

_Reunited After 4 years, European Football Lovers Gerard Piqué and Zlatan Ibrahimovic Share An Intimate Weekend Away From Prying Eyes_

 

Gerard grunts to himself at the thought, frowning, and Milan stirs next to him, stretching his tiny body some as he opens his eyes to look up at the sound intruding on his sleepy time. The baby looks peaceful and his eyes are surprisingly sharp as he eyes his daddy, sitting up on the bed, his form blocking Shakira’s face from Gerard’s gaze. He reaches out to stroke his son’s hair gently, murmuring quiet apologies. “Daddy didn’t mean to wake you.” He says, ready to gravel if the baby got cranky but his son really isn’t a problematic baby and never has been. Instead Milan crawls into Gerard’s lap and snuggles into his chest, reaching for his father’s phone and taking it out of his hands. Gerard lets him, feeling the lingering disappointment as he more or less gives up on the idea of receiving a reply from Zlatan. It is really a shame, the whole thing, he thinks to himself, resting his chin gently on the top of the baby’s head as Milan turns his phone upside down and shakes it in the air. Gerard doesn’t think about the past often, but sitting here in his quiet bedroom, with his beautiful family surrounding him, he feels like he should have fought harder for friendship too. He wonders if maybe there were chances over the years which presented themselves and he completely missed out on. Should’ve taken Ibra to a bar for a beer or something after their latest match last year, Gerard thinks to himself.

 

He is eyeing his phone, which is being rather carefully handled by his smart son, when Shakira wakes up. She yawns a little and shifts on the bed, Gerard’s eyes lingering on the curve of her back where her tank top has ridden up. He reaches and trails his fingers over her skin before pulling the top’s hem down and giving her a soft smile.

 

“Sleep well?” he asks, keeping is voice low because the atmosphere feels really peaceful, and he doesn’t want his personal discomfort to bring the rest of them out of that state. He isn’t that good of an actor though and Shaki is the more clairvoyant of the two by a long shot, so he ends up being eyed. Her gaze is calculating, sleep practically entirely gone from it, as she scoots toward him and Milan on the bed.

 

“You okay?” she asks, reaching up to cup his cheek, her thumb stroking Gerard’s cheekbone gently. He nods silently, affirmatively and gives her an open look. Everything’s good between the two of them, she must know this. Then again, it’s not what she asked, but he is okay, really. He nods again, letting his thoughts wander into their plans for tonight.

 

“Torre d’Alta Mar tonight?” he suggests, raising his eyebrows suggestively. It is their favorite restaurant – the one they had their first date in, the one they had their third date in and the one they go to for most anniversaries. He thinks it is only fitting to go there on Valentine’s Day after a month of barely seeing each other. Shaki looks like she really does approve of the idea, a smile breaking out on her lips as she leans up to kiss him softly, then moves on to kiss Milan’s cheek. The baby turns and kisses her back, having been very quiet the past few minutes.

 

They stay in bed for a while longer until Marina, the new babysitter arrives. The girl kept her cool with Gerard very well, this is one of the reasons why he hired her, but with Shakira there is a moment when it’s like she turns into a different person. She stumbles over her words when she introduces herself and tells Shaki she is a fan and Shaki is amazing and wow, Shaki is beautiful in person and no wonder their baby is so beautiful, too. Gerard is stunned at first but then can’t help but laugh along as Shakira takes it all in stride. She is very used to this, being as successful as she is, and Gerard has a serious appreciation for the smooth way she deals with all types of fans.

 

Later, when they’re getting ready, Gerard casts a couple of looks at his phone. He’s not wistful per say, in fact what he is mostly feeling is impatience; he just wishes Zlatan would answer his text already. He considers sending another one, pressing for a reply, but then changes his mind. Better let it go, he thinks to himself, helping Shaki zip up her dress in front of the mirror. She looks beautiful and they both look like they’re going to the opera, but who can judge them. It’s Valentine’s Day. At dinner she tells him about The Voice, how much incredible talent there is in the US, how she can’t wait to work with these gifted people and how she thinks she can and she should make a difference in their careers. He listens intently, wanting to get a peek into the life she has over there – and there is no mistake about it, she _has_ a life in the states – a life forged in time with work and effort. Gerard’s respect for her is endless, and he would never ask of her to give that life up, even if it means their relationship is more or less a long-distance one for six months out of the year.

 

They talk and eat, smiling throughout the entire dinner, having missed the presence and the comfort of having the other nearby. He barely thinks about the text a part of him is still expecting to come, until it actually does arrive, pretty much at the same time as dessert – chocolate mousse for Shaki and a sundae for him, but they’re going to share anyway. Gerard reaches for his phone to read the message almost on instinct, casting Shakira an apologetic look as he unlocks his phone. Again, the text catches him by surprise.

 

**_I will come to you, my flight is on Monday. Make time in your schedule, sí?_ **

 

Gerard is stuck gazing at his phone for a while, until something inside urges him to just reply already. He doesn’t think about it much and just types back the response and sends it.

 

**_Sí._ **

 

It is the first simple yes he has said to Zlatan in years.   

 

 

 

 

 


	3. I Was Way Off Of The Pace

 

 

 

 

 

Shaki flies back to LA on Sunday evening, after a long weekend of relaxing, resting at home, making out with Gerard and playing with their son as a family. Gerard can have no complaints this time around – they got to celebrate Valentine’s day; they got to spend over three full days together; and to top it all he got permission to drive her back to the airport himself. And it’s not like he is using the word permission freely here, but that is what it was, since the cab driver from before had volunteered to drive Shaki for free on the regular and she’d barely managed to say no, always eager to establish a connection with the fans. This time however, the connection that takes precedence is hers with Gerard and he really wanted to driver her to the airport and to see her off properly, so he gets the chance to.

 

They don’t talk much on the way there, content in each other’s company as they always are these days. In the very beginning of their relationship, Gerard did feel like he had to make up for every silence, be it awkward or not. This is who he always has been, he can not quite stand extended periods of quiet, he likes to fill them up with conversation regardless of the topic. Frequently this leads to him annoying every cranky team mate of his with needless small talk, but at the end of the day they do appreciate him for it. Gerard can always be counted on to bring something up, and then to make a proper talk out of it. It’s practically a talent, or at least people grow to see it that way once they are in the public eye. Fans expect him to be able to carry on a conversation, and so do reporters, and if he wasn’t who he is, interview panels with Barca would be much more awkward than they are now. Shaki likes this about him too, and maybe that is because she is pretty much as talkative as he is, she just happens to be less bothered by silence than him. When they’d first started dating she’d told him “You’re really cute when you ramble on about whatever just so we wouldn’t sit in quiet. But quiet is good.” And he’d grown to appreciate it, but quiet was acquired taste and if he had to guess, Gerard would say that he only doesn’t mind quiet when he is sharing it with Shakira or his son. Family would do that to you, bring you comfort in areas where you wouldn’t expect to find it.

 

At the airport, their goodbyes are short – Shaki doesn’t like to extend them because it makes her miss her family more and Gerard, being somewhat more prone to clinginess tries to reign in his own urges to beg her to stay another day. It’s like this every time, so slowly they’re starting to get more or less accustomed to the general discomfort of this come-and-go dynamic Shaki has. They are adults so Gerard doesn’t have to whine about it, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it either. Yet in the end of the day all that matters is that they make it work, and he thinks that makes him pretty damn lucky as he gives her a kiss, their lips lingering together. He feels her smile against his mouth and squeezes her around the waist before pulling back, meeting her gaze.

 

“Milan will call you every day.” He promises, bending down once more to place a firm kiss on Shaki’s forehead, smelling her hair wistfully. Her grin broadens in response and she nods, her fingers interlacing with Gerard’s briefly as he steps back toward the plane. “He better!” She winks, having caught on the fact that what Gerard really means is that the first few days he will lapse back into his comfort zone where he texts her ten times a day and wins himself and their son a lengthy Skype video chat whenever possible. He will also consider flying to the US for a day or two, as he always does, and then grumble and complain to himself and anyone who will listen when Barca’s training sessions and match schedule doesn’t allow him more than one free day at a time. He always elects to spend that day with his son, the most important person in his life, and Gerard is happy for it. He doesn’t truly hate being that busy, but sometimes it feels only natural to begrudgingly accept the reality that he can not have his cake and eat it too all the time. They have careers and lives that put a lot on their plates - that is what comes with the territory of Spanish/International football and a singer’s worldwide popularity.

 

He drives back home feeling a mix of nostalgic and hopeful, as he always does after his and Shaki’s days together when she has a project going on in the US or in Colombia. The nostalgia isn’t necessarily worse when they’ve spent more days together, as is the case this time around, but he does have more to think about and replay in his mind because of it. Playing football-karaoke with his son and the babysitter won’t quite compare as an experience to how he did it mere two days ago with Milan and his mother, but he guesses he will enjoy it either way. Trying to get the baby to choose between the football and the microphone toy certainly had been an entertaining challenge - the baby had clung to both and refused to give either up, and Gerard was ready to take it on again. As he parks the car he imagines Marina just might try to help Milan choose a singing career like his mommy, and he makes a mental note to himself to keep an eye on the babysitter. Shakira’s fans are dangerous and unpredictable in their core, he concludes, smiling to himself a little at his own thoughts. He needs to establish a good coping mechanism for the days after Shaki leaves, because this won’t do.

 

The babysitter is reading to Milan when he enters the baby’s room, finding his son sitting in bed and looking particularly disinterested in the story Marina is reading. Gerard wonders if he should bring some toys over from the living room, but they would excite his son rather than put him to sleep, which would be counter productive. As it is past 8 already it’s time for the baby to sleep and hopefully start missing his mommy less by tomorrow. Gerard’s heart aches seeing his son so subdued and sad over Shaki leaving but what can they do. They can’t clone her, which would be ideal; and they certainly can’t ask her to leave her career behind and become a full-time housewife and mother. She’d already experimented with that dynamic last year for months after giving birth to Milan and by mid-spring she’d gotten so fidgety Gerard himself told her “You have to go out there and be you. The world needs Shakira.” Shaki had looked at him, calculating but uncertain, asked him if he was sure about what he was saying. “You can have a family and a career, we both can.” Gerard had said and meant every word. He knows some things in life just take some getting used to, and others dig a hole into your chest and make you miserable to your core. If he’d had to give football up, he knew it would kill him, so why would it be different for Shaki. She’s happiest on stage, so if Gerard has to lift her up on it every time, he will.

 

He sits on the bed next to Milan, cradling the baby close to his chest and stroking his soft hair, hoping his touch is soothing enough for his son to drift off. The babysitter’s voice has softened and lowered considerably by now, intelligently intent on helping the baby relax, and Gerard feels pleased at her effort. It isn’t long until the combination of Marina’s soft voice and his light touch puts the baby to sleep, and Gerard feels a vague sense of accomplishment – it was never this easy with any of the previous babysitters, so he has done a good job hiring this girl out of the twenty-something he interviewed. He is not an inadequate full-time (well, sort of) daddy after all, he thinks as he tucks the baby in, already optimistic about the next couple of months until The Voice’s new season comes to an end.

 

Marina stays with Milan until she is certain he won’t wake up, and Gerard pays her extra over her day’s wage for her trouble, which she assures him with a somewhat offended expression on her face, is absolutely no trouble at all. “I love children,” she says at the door, swinging her handbag over her shoulder, “but Milan really is a special boy. He has that incredibly intelligent look in his eyes, like he understands everything that is happening, and wants to say so much.” Gerard finds himself nodding along, because yes, he’s observed the same and he is pretty sure the baby is already smarter than he is in ways he can not anticipate. “What time do you need me to come by tomorrow, Mr. Piqué?” the girl asks him and only then does Gerard remember that tomorrow is Monday and he has quite the day ahead of him. He is momentarily lost, trying to arrange his schedule in his mind in a way that would make it possible for him to go to practice _and_ meet Zlatan. The girl is giving him an inquisitive little look, and looks like she is about to repeat her question when Gerard finally answers her.

 

“How about eight?” he asks, rather than tells her because they had settled on a later hour when they were discussing the contract but for tomorrow he wants to be on the safe side. Marina nods, looking like she’s thinking about the contract as well, but doesn’t question him about it. “Eight’s good.” She says, almost distractedly as she makes her way out the door with a passing smile to Gerard. “Sleep well, Mr. Piqué.” She calls out on her way to her car, giving him a little wave. He watches her car as she drives off, already thinking about the day expecting him.

 

Zlatan had told him to clear out his schedule; Gerard had said yes and then, naturally, completely forgot to do it. He has training at eleven tomorrow, and everyone is going to be there, which will make it all the more obvious if he doesn’t go. Is it too late to call, he wonders, and then considers a couple of options as excuses for the late notice. It’s only practice so it’s not like he has to lie about some sort of a family emergency – even if he doesn’t go, it won’t affect the dynamic too drastically, and they will still work together well in the match against Real on Thursday. They also have another training session on Tuesday, so he reckons he can miss tomorrow’s if Zlatan’s plane lands in the morning. Actually, he has no idea when Gerard’s plane lands when he should have at least asked about it at some point after the Swede texted him that he had a flight planned and he was going to visit him. Gerard decides to shoot down any sense of guilt before he starts feeling it by giving Ibra a call. It has been months since they spoke, and the texting doesn’t really count because of its limiting nature.

 

He actually expects the striker not to pick up, but that’s not the case.

 

“What a great surprise.” Zlatan’s Spanish accent hasn’t changed at all and it gives Gerard a familiar feel of comfort. Maybe Ibra has been practicing his Spanish with someone, which would mean that he keeps in touch with other ex-teammates of his but not with Gerard, and that thought doesn’t appeal to the younger man much. There is also a note of humor in Zlatan’s tone and it makes Gerard wonder if it’s because Zlatan didn’t think he would call or because he is genuinely basking in the attention. Yeah, it is probably the first option and the Swede is shamelessly mocking Gerard for being a forgetful shitty little friend.

 

“I’m calling to ask when your plane lands.” Gerard says without thinking, and then curses himself inwardly. Way to improve his friend skills. There is a brief torturous silence on the other end of the line until Zlatan speaks up again, his tone dropped down a notch but the amusement coming through still. “And here I think you just want to hear my beautiful voice.” The Swede says, snickering a bit after, and Gerard lets out a silent sigh of relief. He is off the hook for now, as it seems, at least from Zlatan. But he definitely does not intend to get himself off the hook for fail-starting their first conversation in months. “I land at noon.” Ibra adds and he makes a mental note to himself to call Martino first thing tomorrow morning to let him know he won’t make training. He hasn’t missed a Barca training session since he had issues with his hamstring last year and even then he’d nearly gone out of his mind sitting at home, waiting to “feel better”, and he feels somewhat uneasy, hoping he won’t miss out on much.

 

But more about that later, Gerard decides, clears his throat, and focuses on Zlatan. “How are you?” He asks, and he sounds uncertain even to himself, like he is out of practice at making conversation. But no, that is not what it is, he talks all the time, he is only unused to talking to Ibra these days, and that is about to change. Gerard straightens up his shoulders a little, reaching for the notepad and pen on the kitchen counter and scribbles down ‘Zlatan, airport, noon’ quickly, continuing “How’s the club? What have you been up to?” He is genuinely curious and anticipating the reply, but clearly the Swede has other plans because there is an impatient sound from the other end of the line before Zlatan replies. “We talk about this tomorrow, when we are together. Now you tell me where we meet.” Perhaps years ago Gerard would have been irked to be dismissed with such nonchalance but now it brings a smile to his lips and a decided lightness in his chest. He ponders on the spot only briefly, then figures Ibra doesn’t really care where they meet as long as they do it before they forget each other’s faces.

 

“How about at a café, maybe Cachitos?” He suggests, trying to remember if that place was one of Zlatan’s preferred spots and drawing a blank. There is an affirmative little hum from the Swede and Gerard nods to himself, writing ‘Cachitos’ on the paper and drawing a large tick symbol next to it. “What time?” he prompts, not waiting for the striker to make whatever clever little comment is already surely forming in his head.

 

“What, no pick up from airport?” Zlatan teases, and Gerard closes his eyes, smiling and shaking his head as he images the smirk plastered on the older man’s lips. Zlatan truly is impossible and Gerard as missed him. He hesitates, briefly, and then shrugs some even though Ibra can’t see him. “I don’t mind coming to pick you up.” He says, and it’s true. He has driven there today, what’s one more trip to the airport tomorrow. Surprisingly, Zlatan takes pity on him for some reason and reassures him “I’m joking. Geri is always busy, I won’t make you. Meet me at the Cachitos at one? I could come early or later, but one should be okay?” There is something like uncertainty in the striker’s voice. Gerard guesses he has forgotten a bit of what it is like to navigate through Barcelona’s traffic on a week day, and it’s only natural after four years of living in another country. It’s his turn to reassure Zlatan. “One is good; it should take you just about an hour to make it through airport security and to drive over.”

 

“Then we settle. I see you at Cachitos at one tomorrow.” Zlatan sounds decisive, in the way Gerard remembers him being on the pitch when they would discuss who should take a free kick or a penalty and why. Granted, it was usually Zlatan telling them why Zlatan should take it, and just like he was a part of those free kicks then, he is a part of this now. Gerard definitely appreciates it; it tells him Ibra is just as invested in rekindling their friendship as he is. He nods along in agreement, and then realizes the Swede is waiting for a proper, verbal response. “Yes, see you at Cachitos at one in the afternoon.” He confirms, momentarily battling a sense like he is missing something. He is hesitating to say his goodbyes, when Zlatan pipes in.

 

“Tomorrow you tell me everything. We have stories to tell, yes?” He sounds impatient, almost like a child, but Gerard has a sneaking suspicion he might just be covering up his intention to dear him a new one for that interview from last month. He hopes it won’t come to that, because he’d honestly rather that for once they pretend the media has let go of a nearly half a decade old scandal and it’s like he and Ibra were never involved in it in the first place. He decides he’ll go with the flow and tell Zlatan all the stories the older man wants to hear, and happily listen in turn to the Swede’s tails of single handed football domination and general badassery. “Indeed. Whatever you want to know, I’m an open book.” Gerard confirms, already on his way towards the bathroom to shower before bed, feeling like everything is going smoothly for the time being. There is a pause on the line, and then Zlatan snorts a little, his next words coming slow but confident. “I hope you are.”

 

“I am.” Gerard insists, smiling a little as he peeks into Milan’s room and sees the baby sleeping peacefully. “I will see you tomorrow, then?” He asks Zlatan, conscious of the fact that the striker has a flight to catch tomorrow and he needs his rest. Gerard is tired himself, he isn’t sure why but today did take up a lot of his energy and he needs to recharge well and manage a workout by the time the babysitter arrives tomorrow morning. He hears rustling sounds on the other end of the line and guesses Ibra might be planning an early evening too. “Yes, sleep well, Geri. Dream of Zlatan.” The Swede says, a mischievous grin in his voice, then hangs up before Gerard can muster back a witty response. The younger man shakes his head in acceptance of Zlatan’s cheekiness as he gets into the shower. By the time he gets in bed, Gerard feels pretty confident that the day ahead won’t be as lonely as he expected it to be when he was driving Shaki to the airport.

 

 

 

 

The next morning passes by in more or less of a blur. It is pretty standard in the sense that Gerard has established a pattern for himself to get a good workout in on the days he doesn’t have training or a match. It helps keep him in shape physically, but it’s more about the mental discipline that he prides himself on having. Back in the day despite being a footballer, he was significantly lazier, but once he grew up in the ways that mattered, and started caring more about himself, it had become easier to get in shape and keep in shape. These days he finds himself itching for a workout the very moment he wakes up in the morning with the knowledge that he needs to go for a run or hit the gym. It is similar to his enjoyment of a busy week – it makes him feel like he is living life to the fullest. Or at least whatever version of fullest he is currently capable of living, that is. Of course, this morning isn’t quite like any other morning, because today Gerard will be reunited with an old friend. The anticipation is not quite like when he has final in La Liga or when he is about to meet one of Shakira’s celebrity friends whom he happens to be a fan of, but it _is_ anticipation he is feeling. It’s a good sensation to have, and he lets his thoughts wander while doing his sit ups, thinking idly about what Zlatan will tell him he has been up to; how life has been for him in Paris Saint-Germain; if he is happy with the team and their manager. Gerard may even ask if Ibra misses Barcelona, because he does want to know, but it’d mean to lead with that so he’ll hold off and see where the conversation heads on its own.

 

He greets Marina and takes an hour long run, or more like jogging as it is, taking it relatively easy, or at least easy enough to stretch his legs and feel the burn without overdoing it. Martino had insisted Gerard do a run, maybe at a park nearby to that he “didn’t forget the feel of grass under his feet” – Gerard had thought it was a pretty cute show of humor on the manager’s part and he definitely preferred it to the alternative he expected – for Martino to tell him to ditch his other plans and bring his lanky ass to training. “I will do my very best to stop the team’s river of tears from flooding the pitch, they will feel your absence so vividly.” Martino had said, and by that point Gerard couldn’t even roll his eyes, he just felt like an over-achiever high school student apologizing for not being able to attend an extra class. As it turns out, missing one training session isn’t the end of the world, not even for a player like Gerard who liked to attend them meticulously.

 

Between his after-workout shower and a playtime session with Milan, noon comes and goes by, and before Gerard really realizes it, he is saying goodbye to the baby and Marina and getting into his car. The café is not that far, but he prefers to arrive early and wait for Zlatan, because if he’s the second one to arrive he is certain to be greeted with playful banter he is out of practice engaging in. Then again, there will probably be banter either way; he’s meeting Zlatan after all. The staff at Cachitos knows him, most of them remember him from previous visits maybe, and he guesses the others recognize him at least. Barcelona is not that big, and playing for Barca has always been like an invisible flag he carried everywhere, not that he minds it. They seat him at a table in the far corner of the café, next to a large window. Gerard watches the people walking by outside and finds comfort in the fact that none of them pay him any attention. Save from the curious looks he is receiving from some of the other patrons at tables nearby, it all feels pretty private, which Ibra will approve of, he’s sure.

 

He is not looking at the café entrance when Zlatan arrives, but he can hear and sense it. It’s either that he is too attuned to it in his anticipation or the more likely option that people’s barely contained reactions alert him of the Swede’s arrival. There are some hushed comments here and there, and the waitress lingering near Gerard’s table is staring in direction of the door. Gerard would be amused at people’s exaggerated surprise if he had time for it, but Zlatan is being escorted to his table, the striker’s stride fast and confident, walking two steps ahead easily in front of the poor hostess girl trying to catch up with him. Gerard is up on his feet and doesn’t have much time to observe anything else about Zlatan’s appearance before he is drawn into a tight hug, crushed into the older man’s broad chest. He relaxes into it on instinct, smiling as he returns the embrace, squeezing Ibra around the back. When Zlatan pulls away, he waves the staff off without sparing them a glance and the girls scatter away, looking mildly irritated and yet still somehow impressed. Gerard nearly smirks to himself, he’d forgotten about the Swede’s effect on people after a while of not witnessing it himself. They all managed to remain enamored with Ibra even he told them off.

 

“There you are.” Zlatan’s tone is pleased and his face lights up as he looks Gerard in the eye, one of his hands gripping at Gerard’s shoulder while the other rests on the younger man’s hip. Gerard grins back at him broadly, slapping the back of the striker’s neck gently before they draw apart and sit down across from each other.

 

Zlatan is five years older than him, and when he played in Barcelona Gerard never really noticed it. He was vaguely aware of their age difference but there was youthfulness in Ibra which showed in his every action – in the way he approached football, approached his team mates, and approached reporters. Now as Gerard looks at him, he wonders if he sees him in a different light for the first time, or if Zlatan has actually changed. It has been a while, indeed. When Zlatan left, he’d been almost 29 and Gerard was 24, at least one of them had been too young to care about age at that point, and perhaps in the ways that counted both of them had been. Today, in person in front of Gerard, Ibra looks mature. It really is the best word Gerard can use for it. There is seriousness in and around Zlatan’s eyes; the Swede’s features are sharper; the way he lowers his body into the chair seems so controlled somehow. He looks like a man who has been through a lot, or at least a man whose years caught up with him. Gerard doesn’t dwell on this observation, because he knows he can be proved wrong in the blink of an eye.

 

“Here I am.” He grins instead, leaning forward onto the table toward Zlatan. “And here you are. Europe’s best striker back in Barcelona.” Gerard just might be beaming a little by the time he finishes the sentence. This is like a blast from the past and he is enjoying it. Zlatan is looking at him appreciatively, his lips curled into a little smirk as he reclines back into his chair. He looks all sleek and cool with his shiny hair pulled back into a perfect little ponytail and his expensive jeans and leather jacket – Boss maybe – but the glint in his brown eyes betrays his excitement clearly enough.

 

“I was invited.” He says smoothly, eyeing Gerard for an extended moment of quiet, then winks at the younger man shamelessly. Gerard chuckles at that, basking briefly in the attention and nods. “Yes, you were. And I’m happy you came.” He says, casting a look into the menu on the table. Should he offer coffee or should they celebrate this reunion with proper drinks? He glances back at Zlatan, momentarily forgetting about the dilemma as he meets the striker’s gaze. “Rather quickly too.” He blurts out as an afterthought, suddenly feeling like there is something to be said that he’s missing.

 

Zlatan smiles at him accommodatingly, which is odd enough of a gesture on its own, and Gerard sees him motion for the waitress to come over. When she does appear at his side, in record time, the Swede doesn’t pay any attention to her whatsoever. “Two mojitos.” He orders instead, for himself and Gerard, and the girl is once again dismissed, stalking away with a sulk. Gerard can swear he hears her say Zlatan is a “pompous arse”, and Ibra must hear that too but he looks completely unfazed instead.

 

“I was just considering cocktails as an option.” Gerard says, almost asking the striker if he read his mind or something, but that is ridiculous because clearly the reason why Zlatan knew to order is because he is a good friend who actually remembers what Gerard likes to drink. The younger man searches his mind for something Zlatan-specific that will make his own image as a friend appear better. “How are you and Helena doing?” is what he settles for, straightening up in his readiness to hear about Ibra’s perfect little family and how well everything is going. Surprisingly, Zlatan seems disinterested in that topic, if his initial shrug is anything to do by. The Swede crosses his legs, giving Gerard a little look. “Same as always.” He says like they’re talking about something particularly mundane. “She understands me very good and we live happy.” To Gerard that sounds pretty much like a perfect relationship, because it’s what he has with Shaki. He’s confused by the mixed nature of what Zlatan is saying and how he looks while saying it. Maybe that wasn’t the best topic to start with.

“And the club?” He asks, genuinely curious to know what life in Paris is like for Zlatan. Barcelona did suffer some from his transfer, that much was certain, but it’s been three years and maybe Ibra is happier where he is now, professionally.

 

“Club appreciates me.” Zlatan says, and he is smiling again, a slightly dreamy expression on his face. Gerard smiles at that too, it’s been a while since he has seen Ibra look that pleased, especially since they haven’t had many opportunities to hang out. The mojitos arrive and Gerard takes a sip before prompting Zlatan to tell him more. “You said you have a lot of stories to tell.” He reminds the striker, shifting in his chair under the older man’s gaze.

 

“Stories can wait, I want to hear about you.” Zlatan says with determination that gives little to no room for arguing, and Gerard feels like yeah, grown or not, this is still Ibra sitting across from him. And the Swede is a man who likes to get what he wants, so Gerard may as well comply. “Fine, fine.” He agrees, wondering where to start, then figures the best beginning is the most important point. He tells Zlatan about Milan, about how much the baby has grown over the past year. How smart and inquisitive he is; how he looks a lot like Shakira but there is some of Gerard too; how he has an affinity for football and may one day choose to follow in his daddy’s steps. Zlatan listens to all of it, uncharacteristically quiet for the most part, eyes open and intent, like he is expecting to hear and soak up Gerard’s entire life story from the past 3 years. “What will you do if he wants to play in Real Madrid?” The striker asks at one point, not even bothering to hide his smirk from Gerard’s exaggerated scandalized look. Then with a straight face Gerard replies that all joking aside, Milan can choose to play for Paris Saint-Germain and he would still love and accept him. Zlatan looks momentarily stunned, before smacking Gerard’s arm. “Now that is mean, Geri.” He says, and his tone is serious but his smile much more forgiving.

 

Gerard continues on to tell him about the new babysitter he has hired and about she seems so good with the baby already; then mentions Shaki and The Voice and how she travels a lot so these days it’s mainly he and Milan. Zlatan uses Gerard’s little pause then to lean in closer, lowering his voice some, apparently conscious of their surroundings. It isn’t exactly just the two of them. “What did she think about the interview?” he asks, and Gerard’s train of thought stops and settles there. Right. The interview. He figured it would come up sooner rather than later, and he guesses better get that topic out of the way now. He eyes Ibra’s face, noting the furrow of the striker’s eyebrows and the curiosity in his dark eyes. Zlatan doesn’t look annoyed exactly, but there is a bit of tension there which Gerard assumes from perhaps being misinformed by his PR girl. It seems to the younger man like she really hasn’t been doing the Swede any favors.

 

“Shaki is fine with it, for the most part she just laughs about it with me.” Gerard says, shrugging his shoulder. It’s the truth, really, and it will have to be enough for Zlatan, he reckons. He ignores the other patrons’ looks in their direction – maybe they look vaguely secretive, leaning over the table to hush about whatever – and focuses his attention on the Swede. For once Ibra is actually unreadable, but there seems to be a bit of a pout to his lips, so Gerard assumes his admission seems incomplete. “It’s not a problem for her, I mean.” He clarifies “We discussed it briefly years ago and since then it’s just… another thing that happens, I guess.” That is basically the rundown of it. Gerard vaguely remembers talking about the scandal in some detail with Shaki and it had been a relatively simple discussion. Shaki was used to the media blowing things out of proportion, and Gerard was good at tackling reporters’ ridiculous questions so it never became a scandal in their relationship like it was in the papers.

 

Zlatan huffs a little, his gaze lowered to the table like he is thinking something to himself. Gerard can sense he is about to hear what it is, and it makes him feel uneasy. He and Shakira may have been able to laugh about the whole thing, but that had never been Zlatan’s response. The older man looks up at Gerard, seemingly hesitating before his expression hardens a little. He shifts in his chair, sitting back, appearing more or less casual. “That’s good, it’s not a problem for her.” he says, tone all business. “And you, you’re not tired?” The Swede’s gaze is expectant and knowing. He has been tired since the thing broke out, and he can sense Gerard has joined him by now. Gerard hums and nods in confirmation, momentarily facing the feeling of righteousness he’s had since last week. He doesn’t want to feed into that little fire, Zlatan has done enough of that, but Zlatan has had a good reason to do it, too.

 

“I’m definitely tired of it.” Gerard admits, meeting Zlatan’s eyes and seeing dark approval and not much else in the deep brown of his irises. Somehow encouraged, he adds. “And I don’t think I will respond anymore when reporters bring it up. Maybe that’ll shut them up.” It’s not a promise that he is making, but Gerard does feel more or less resolute in his decision to help bring the scandal to its quiet death. It’s been long enough. Zlatan gives him a smile then, a genuine one, that doesn’t even feel like it comes to relief, but from affection. Gerard smiles back, and the atmosphere feels a billion times more welcoming all of a sudden.

 

“Whatever Geri does, Zlatan is fine with.” Zlatan says easily, reaching out to cup the back of Gerard’s head and squeeze at his neck. Gerard lets him, leaning in some and gripping at the striker’s upper arm. “I don’t think you did wrong,” Zlatan continues and slowly lets go of him. “It’s them, the reporters… “ He looks conflicted for a moment, then seems to shake it off somehow. Gerard watches him silently, waiting for Ibra to let whatever he is bothering him out “They wanted to hurt us. They wanted to hurt us.” Zlatan repeats and there is something in his tone that makes Gerard ache in response. He wants to offer comfort but he isn’t sure what the right thing to say is. Zlatan continues – “They pushed and pushed until I leave… then they push until one of us breaks.” He gives Gerard a wide-eyed look, like there is terror in his own words. And there probably is, because Gerard himself is starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. Maybe he underestimated the scandal in some way, he doesn’t know. But he does know that he doesn’t like to see Zlatan like this.

 

There is silence for a while, and it feels grim somehow like they’ve delved into something awful and tragic. Ibra doesn’t say anything else, and Gerard doesn’t want to push, but now that they’ve started this, he has one more question to ask before he changes the topic. “The girl, your PR rep, you said she brings this up to you.” He starts, looking at Zlatan for confirmation. The older man nods, looking serious, but his body language is more or less relaxed – perhaps he has let go of the anger for now. Gerard nods as well, then continues “And you say she… she thinks there is truth to it?” This is a bit risky to bring up, but as long as he has started, he may as well cover it too. Zlatan looks like he tastes something bad briefly, his eyes glazing over with something unknown, then confirms with a begrudging “Yes.” Gerard wants to ask ‘Did you tell her it isn’t true?’, ‘Why would she get that idea?’ but both of these questions seem to have obvious answers. They’ve all been thrown into this big mess the media conjured up and everyone is influenced one way or another. So Gerard places focus on the future. “What does she plan to do about this?” he asks, and then clarifies with “The scandal and your reputation.”

 

At this Zlatan laughs, and it sounds bitter despite the upward curl of his lips. “Nothing.” He says simply, and the look he gives Gerard holds a lot more information which the Swede spares him for the moment. “How so?” Gerard presses, and if the striker doesn’t want to answer, he’ll change the topic to something lighter. “She says this,” the Swede gestures between himself and Gerard “this _I_ have to do something about.”

 

There is silence again and Gerard is confused. He doesn’t know what the girl had in mind when she said that and he guesses from the look of the striker that neither does Zlatan. He decides it is better they lighten up the mood and talk about something positive, so he brings up the Champion’s League and the French Football League. They end up talking about football for a solid hour, and time flies by in the way it always does with football. At least in that area neither of them has complaints, or at least not ones big enough to put a damper on the talk or on their lives in general.

 

Still, something in the back of Gerard’s mind bugs him, something about how big of a deal Zlatan’s publicist had purposely made of something that was meant to be forgotten. And as a result Ibra was mad, had texted Gerard about it, Gerard had felt guilty as a consequence – it was a chain reaction and maybe it wouldn’t have started if it hadn’t been for… well, for Gerard’s answer to that interviewer. That’s how it started this time around, isn’t it. He didn’t think much of it at the time, but it has come to bite him in the ass. He never really thought about it much at all, not over 4 years, and certainly not as time passed by. But Zlatan, in contrast, was always hung up on it. A part of Gerard is bothered by that. He doesn’t bring it up again while they’re in Cachitos and for the sake of ignoring a petty little thing until it goes away, he doesn’t intend to bring it up at all.

 

Zlatan walks him to his car, walking companionably close, their shoulders brushing together. Gerard asks how long Ibra intends to stay for, and offers the older man a guest bedroom in the house. The Swede smiles politely and waves him off, saying he has already booked his sweet at the Hilton, but he can come hang out at the house one day if Gerard will have him since he’s staying for a full week. “A week?” Gerard gapes a little, because it’s a shocker, but it’s a nice shocker. “Will you come to the Barca vs Real match, then?” he inquires, hopeful. It will almost be like the time they played together, but with a good deal of nostalgia attached to it because that was the past and this is the present.

“Of course I come.” Zlatan straightens his shoulders, looking proud. “Come to Barca then miss Barca match? Zlatan doesn’t think so.” Gerard chuckle-snorts at that, because sometimes it seems like Zlatan’s Spanish is better when he speaks about himself in third person. “Excellent.” He says, approvingly. “I’m looking forward to it. You’ll see the team again and you can celebrate our win with us after.” Gerard says, and when he meets the Swede’s eyes, Ibra is giving him a look.

 

“What?” Gerard asks, smile freezing a little on his face.

 

Zlatan smirks “I like confident Geri.” He says, tone teasing, but Gerard doesn’t let himself be engaged. Zlatan’s next words however do not fail to engage him. “Hope there won’t be dumb reporters ready for scandal again.” Is all Zlatan says but his suddenly somber expression is enough to give Gerard that little push.

 

“I don’t get why you get so mad about them. It’s only a rumor, something they made up.” He blurts out before he can stop himself, then the sudden stillness in Zlatan’s body makes him feel wary and on edge like he just messed up big time. Gerard couldn’t help himself though, not really. Four years ago when the whole ordeal first surfaced he was honest to God baffled at Ibra’s complete inability to laugh it off and ignore it. The scandal had been chewed over and over and over by the media and reporters from every corner of Barcelona refused to just drop it, but as annoying as was, time itself should have provided Zlatan with the ability to brush it off, but strangely – it hadn’t. When the Swede left Barcelona in 2011, Gerard didn’t really get why. It surely wasn’t because a better team expected him on the other side; or the possibility of better friendships awaited him, so it didn’t make sense. And now, a few days after Ibra confronted him with the texts about that interview, Gerard is still confused about why it is that big of a deal. “Why do you get so angry?” he asks, eyes searching Zlatan’s face for clues. He hopes these questions of his won’t end this on a bad note, but he is – for a lack of a better term – confused.

 

Zlatan is an immovable object in front of him - too still, looking like he might not say anything at all and just walk off. His gaze is testing as he looks at Gerard’s face, but whatever he sees there must help make up his mind because he straightens to his full height, an inch or two over Gerard’s 6’4 and takes a step closer.

 

“I get angry because” Zlatan looks his age again, serious and intense. There is animosity in his dark, brown eyes. ”It was not just rumor. I got angry because the reporters – the scum, saw something I do not want them to see. Something personal, something real. They… took something good and made it bad. Something mine, made it theirs.” 

 

Gerard is still confused. He musters a “What?”, still searching Ibra’s face for clarity. Then, like it would make him any less confused, Zlatan takes him by the shoulders and looks Gerard dead in the eye.

 

“Gerard, you’re The One That Got Away.” He says.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. I Waited Long For The Day

 

 

 

 

 

Zlatan has loved before.

 

This is who he is – a passionate person who throws himself head first into everything that feels right and makes the most of it. He loved football, so he pursued it until Swedish national and international media started referring to him as the best striker in the world. He loved women so he pursued many such until they saw in him something they liked, or better yet something they loved. He loved men so he pursued them casually but with a lack of restraint typical to him. What Zlatan had an inclination toward; what Zlatan wanted; what Zlatan needed – Zlatan had at some point in his life. That is who he is – he is driven by love and fueled by it endlessly, that love helps him get what he wants and makes sure that he keeps it, too.

 

When he was younger, he wouldn’t even think about what love really meant, he just knew that he felt it in little and big ways alike. Toward small and big things, he’d feel it in his chest and in his gut, and on instinct he would go for it. He’d never been one for thinking or analyzing too much and in the ways that mattered most, it helped him. Which is why over the years he had small affairs with people and hobbies alike, but the important things held onto him long-term, like a marriage or a soulmate thing. Football was always one of those soulmates for him, a persistent force inside him and surrounding him from the outside. In football, he was not only happy, but he was great. It was a mixture of inner peace and a blessing to do what he was best at. Of course it was a constant in his life, football was always going to be the best constant in his life, or at least so he thought on and off over the years. Whenever he felt settled in one club, he’d feel that sense of belonging, like nothing would ever change and he would have the best football career any footballer yearns for. And then he’d change a club and it would feel rocky for a while, but it was still football and he was still smack down in the middle of it, living his dream.

 

It had been good at Juventus, even with him being young and rash and stupid – and to an extent he still is that same person – and it had been good at Internazionale. Both teams had an appreciation for him that Zlatan figured he commanded with his style of play, at the very least. And in those evenings after a lost match when he would tell defenders and goalies off freely, he guesses he demanded the appreciation too. A tough kind of love, he’d given his fellow players - maybe that is a part of who he is, too. More recently his two seasons at A.C. Milan more or less cemented his reputation as a somewhat unstoppable force on the field. 56 goals in two short seasons wasn’t bad at all by anybody’s standards, and even a perfectionist like Zlatan had to give himself credit – he’d really strengthened his own reputation with each goal. And if the world had ever doubted him – not that it did, they sure as Hell didn’t now. Zlatan has a love for that too, the consequence of hard work and ambition paying off in the eyes of not only his team mates and his family, but in the eyes of the world. And even if things could perhaps stand to be better at his current club Paris Saint-Germain, there is a reason why his play hasn’t been criticized much lately. He never let up. He still has the best endorsements; scores the best goals; scares opposing team defenders in the best of ways with his speed and accuracy. His football love and he have never let each other down, not truly.

 

Zlatan’s love with Barca had been different. Perhaps not in any ways obvious to the outside world, but in the sense that looking back now over those years he spent in Spain, Zlatan can say they stand out in the broad picture of his career, and in the even broader one of his life. He’d arrived in his mid twenties, self assured and ambitious, ready to take on Spanish football; ready to change it single-handedly. And then he’d fit in the team so well, it hadn’t even mattered if he didn’t leave a solitary mark on Spanish football, because they were going to do it together either way. He was a part of a whole, and he _was_ whole – welcomed pretty much immediately, he’d learned Spanish in practically record time. Sure he spoke with some mistakes for a lack of caring in regards to being proper and literate, but he was a footballer, not a scholar. Zlatan’s team accepted this, because they appreciated him exactly as he was, nobody really had time to mock his little slips, or his accent, or the time he took trying to remember a word that was escaping him. Together, Barca was unstoppable, and at the time Zlatan would not have referred to his presence there as a privilege, but if he is asked now, he would have no reservations to admit to it being such.

 

He hadn’t wanted to leave, not really, not in his heart and soul. It had all been in his head, more or less, despite his temper driving him to wreck havoc on Spanish media or to run far away, never look back, and pretend like none of it ever happened. Yes, it was about the scandal. He has no problem facing this fact in the privacy of his own mind. He is honest, painfully honest with everyone that matters, and Zlatan matters to Zlatan. He owes himself the frankness that comes with looking a bull in the eye, even if you start running from it straight after. And that is exactly what his experience with Spain’s biggest gay scandal – or at least it seemed to be for the longest time – had been like for him. One day he was nearing the end of a season at Barca with flying colors, feeling so happy like no one could touch him, and the next he was being assaulted left and right by people sticking microphones and smart phones in his face asking him…

 

It isn’t that he gay, and it isn’t that he is homophobic either. He has been with women since he was thirteen years old. Women are beautiful and soft; intelligent and fair. The women in his life treated him not always the way he wanted to be treated, but the way he deserved – calling him out on his bullshit and standing up to him when his ego got too big for the relationship. He loved women in general, and particularly so the ones whom he’d dated be it briefly or for extended periods of time. His longest relationship was with a stunning human being who happened to be a woman, after all. Zlatan has been with men too, he’d started dating them not much later than he started his relations with women. He never put much of a label on himself, but sometimes when he was in bed with a sexy young guy asking him to talk dirty to him, he’d tell him he loved fucking the guy and he’d tell himself he was probably bisexual. Sex with men had always been a pleasure, and never quite the guilty kind, either. Zlatan never really spent any restless nights in bed wondering if his dick had a possibly disastrous inclination toward the same sex, which would eventually ruin Zlatan’s career. Even for someone who was occasionally intellectually stunted as per his own admission (not to others, of course) as Zlatan, knowing that his career had nothing to do with who he enjoys sleeping with is not hard.

 

Zlatan cares little about people’s thoughts and feelings on the matter of his sexual orientation. Football is a contact sport, and he is a contact-loving person that always loved his job and loved his team mates and loved everything about his life. He didn’t have reservations about how he should be acting so that people would consider him to be ‘a real man’, a manly man. Who cared about manly anyway when he was scoring goals and his team mates were jumping on his back and yelling his name in excitement, and telling him how “fucking amazing” he was for scoring those goals. What Zlatan hated about the scandal was that it went too far the very second that wretched beautiful photo had been taken and posted online. The photo was not supposed to exist, unlike the moment it recorded. The photo was an intrusion, one of the personal kind, and that was what did not agree with Zlatan. They would claim he was the biggest homo to walk the face of the planet, and he’d still shrug a shoulder, point those people to his most recent accomplishment on the pitch and maybe say ‘You’ve nothing better to do? Well, I do.’ And it wouldn’t have even mattered if they continued with their silly pestering; he’d just keep playing football as he always did.

 

When he thinks about it, it isn’t simple. Especially to somebody who can’t get a glimpse into Zlatan’s heart and see the exact way he approaches everything in his life. His actions may have had a high level of disconnect with his emotions, and for the longest time he didn’t care how he came off, or if people got the wrong idea about him. It had happened before with a lot of things – he spoke harshly and people assumed he was an asshole; he dated freely and people assumed he was a slut; and with the scandal, when he got defensive, they guessed he was gay and over-compensating. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. And it isn’t because he is straight as an arrow, but because he actually had something to defend. The photo was a symbol of a lot of things in his life and none of those things belonged in the dirty mouths of reporters who liked to discover a hint of the truth and then turn it into something wrong. That photo stood for the little family he’d made at Barca over the course of three great seasons; it stood for the strong relationships he had established with his team mates; it stood for the close friendships he’d created with a selected few. And perhaps above all, it stood for the unique nature of is relationship with Gerard Piqué.

 

Not that _had_ been a relationship. There was nothing romantic there, or at least not mutually so. They’d never kissed or held hands or anything like that. Hell, Zlatan hadn’t even been caught staring at Gerard, which was a miracle of its own since over the four seasons Zlatan spent in Barca, he did a lot of it. It hadn’t been intense in the beginning; it’d been more of a casual appreciation for the male form. Who could blame Zlatan, really? Gerard was tall and slim, but he wasn’t imposing. He was classically handsome, with his pale skin and his sharp facial features, and he was neither too soft nor too rough around the edges. His eyes were as blue as the sky and anybody, literally anybody, could get lost in them, as most fans and reporters certainly did on the regular. Of course Zlatan noticed how gorgeous Gerard was, everybody did. And Zlatan wasn’t someone to look the other way when eye candy passed by, so he’d looked. Gerard had been that piece of eye candy that was always around. And since aside from being easy on the eyes he was also a beautiful person on the inside too, Zlatan could find zero reasons not to feast his eyes. In time, what had started with Gerard being aesthetically pleasing to look at had evolved, slowly and almost deliberately, despite it feeling not at all like a choice on Zlatan’s part. He hadn’t meant to develop a crush on a team mate, not even one as amazing as Gerard.

They’d played together for two years until Zlatan started to really stare, to seek the younger man out in a crowd at social events or to locate him on the pitch during training sessions. Despite their drastically different roles on the team, during matches they’d found the best ways to interact in a way that would lead to goals. Off of the pitch they went together to bars; hung out at the lavish house Zlatan’d been renting; went for runs when one of them was energetic and the other extra lazy. It had been so easy and smooth and natural for feelings to develop, Zlatan often wonders how nothing happened. Because nothing _had_ happened aside from some light hearted flirting between friends – or maybe this was just wishful thinking on his part; and Zlatan’s lingering gazes whenever they were in the same vicinity. He may have been liberal with his touching too, but Gerard being who he was aka equally touchy and affectionate; he didn’t seem to mind or even notice it much. Zlatan had fed on their proximity for the longest time, practically the entire 09/10 season at Barca; and where it had been easy at its beginning, it had gotten significantly difficult by the end of it. And it hadn’t even been because of the scandal. When he is honest with himself, Zlatan even has to admit that the scandal had been a consequence of the developed issue, not the cause of it.

 

Being friends with Gerard was not difficult. On the contrary, the defender had a peculiar way of making interactions flow with incredible ease, even when he was talking to complete strangers. It was one of his many gifts, Zlatan had observed as much quite early on. But deeper than that, in the way he approached his friendships, Gerard was like no other. He was attentive, in that way a person can only naturally be, always listening intently to whatever someone had to say. He treated everyone they knew that way, so genuine in his relations, Zlatan couldn’t help but admire the younger man for it. He’d been ever so often on the receiving end of Gerard’s excellent people skills, and that was the reason why they’d had a chance to get close. Zlatan was never one for vulnerability, especially not in a professional setting, but in the rare cases that he showed it, Gerard was there every time – ready to console him or to properly scold him depending on the situation. He protected Zlatan this way, be it from outside disappointment or from Zlatan’s inner demons. It was so easy to fall into that dynamic, to learn to trust somebody who gave you so many distinct reasons to trust them. It was so easy to lean on Gerard, even when Zlatan had never really leaned on anybody else but himself.

 

It had been easy to follow the lure of his attraction to Gerard, so unapologetic but pure in its narure. It had been easy to be his team mate on the pitch and his friend on and off of it every day. It had been difficult to face the reality of his growing infatuation with Gerard as a man. But no, it infatuation wasn’t what that feeling was at all. Infatuation was used to refer to something fake and fabricated out of loneliness and misery. And those were the last emotions Zlatan felt as person and as a footballer. His life was complete, with or without a partner; and even if it hadn’t been, he was never the sort of man to sit around and wait for destiny to bring him a date. He went out and met great people and dated even better ones. That was not what had prompted him to feel for Gerard. They spent too much time together for it to be anything but the real deal. And while Zlatan had never been one to shy away from romantic involvement of any sort, this being his first experience with this type of affection for another man, he had trouble adjusting.

 

Zlatan slept with men, maybe dated one or two on and off, but there had never been many feelings involved. He’d fallen in love with women and been faithful to them and it had always worked so well, it caused him to maybe never need the love of a man. Facing that he maybe needed Gerard’s love had been the real issue for Zlatan. He was in his late twenties then, he was supposed to have everything figured out by then – to have a plan for his life and stick to it. Not that it was plausible given who he was, and he never really cared what he was _supposed_ to do before then. But everything was suddenly pointing to him getting himself into a mess that had the potential to change him. And even though he ended up doing nothing, it had changed him indeed.

 

That moment in the Barca sports city parking lot had been the epitome of everything Zlatan had felt bubble to the surface inside him for the nine months leading up to it. They’d lost a match against Atletico the day before and that hadn’t mattered a bit in comparison with Gerard’s kindness in consoling Zlatan that same evening. The following day, they’d met because Zlatan had had a lapse of judgement, deciding to just end his suffering and come clean, see if it ruins the best friendship he’d established in his entire life to date. He’d barely been halfway into a senseless speech about how things escalate when you try to control them and fail, when Gerard reached for his hand and laced their fingers together, squeezing Zlatan’s between his. The younger man listened without interruption to what Zlatan had to say, even if Zlatan was saying too much and nothing at all. With Gerard’s soothing murmur and the heat radiating off his body and into Zlatan’s, the striker had ended up caving and cowering out. He couldn’t spring this on his friend like this, not with Gerard’s earnest open look boring into his. He had to do it right instead, take Gerard out to dinner a few times; maybe buy the defender a new pair of football boots or do whatever else men in love with other men for the first time do.

 

But the photo had come out the following day and Zlatan didn’t have the chance to even figure out how to approach Gerard. It was probably the worst timing in the world, but it was definitely the worst timing for something like this to happen in Zlatan’s life. With the media attacking him every day for a month; then every week for the following year, there had never been a right time to go to Gerard. To ask the defender out on a date or to even finally tell him that Zlatan liked him; liked him a lot; liked him so much if he had to wait any longer, he’d implode.  To tell Gerard that this last season on Barca is even more torturous for him than the previous one because this time around he has faced the fact that he wants another man as more than a friend and more than a fuck buddy. That he is honest with himself about it but he’s crawling out of his skin not being able to be honest with Gerard, too. That if Shakira coming along then, was the universe’s idea of truly ‘bad timing’, Zlatan had learned his lesson.

 

All he’d wanted was another chance, one he wouldn’t waste. One he never got, and instead let Spanish media drive him out of the country with their never-ending reminders of the day his heart was plastered on the World Wide Web like public property. He left; thinking time and space would give him perspective and help him move on, and over the course of the following three years it was proven his hopes were in vain. He couldn’t ‘move on’ from a relationship with Gerard he never even started.

 

Zlatan has loved before, but never quite like this.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
